


Temporal Infidelity

by ptcls



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 19:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20140501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptcls/pseuds/ptcls
Summary: Within the seasons the trees give him a helping hand up to see the way Achilles grows against the leaves. Patroclus’ skin grows calloused under the rocks, scrambling to see what neither had before. In this he feels his hair as it begins to grow out, there’s a freeing nature to letting the dark thin tendrils trail their way down his back. A semblance of an ownership he felt lost long ago. It becomes a comfort, a movement through the strands. He relishes in the notion that if his father saw him he would not recognise, he would be just a wave of the earth.( The time before the return to Phthia, also Patroclus grows his hair. )





	Temporal Infidelity

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Anecdotes by Joanna Newsom.

Achilles eyes shone, intelligent, they mould Patroclus within their gaze as if he were clay. A harsh sunset and the moon bloomed beneath his feet, if Achilles were such a sunset then he was to be cursed by the fates. He felt like a pool he couldn’t swim within, a silking touch that dusted across Patroclus’ skin in the dead of night when he believed his was asleep. 

Within the seasons the trees give him a helping hand up to see the way Achilles grows against the leaves. Patroclus’ skin grows calloused under the rocks, scrambling to see what neither had before. In this he feels his hair as it begins to grow out, there’s a freeing nature to letting the dark thin tendrils trail their way down his back. A semblance of an ownership he felt lost long ago. It becomes a comfort, a movement through the strands. He relishes in the notion that if his father saw him he would not recognise, he would be just a wave of the earth. 

Despite the years that have passed, Patroclus’ still dreams of the boy, the life draining from his body, bright eyes becoming milky. The milk spurting into the cream coloured sand kicked up by Achilles feet as he runs across the sea front, calling Patroclus’ name across the way from where he sat. He’s worrying long hair that he had not had then, between his fingers, tying it hard against his scalp, relishing in the control he has to cause himself a shuddering spike of pain. 

Achilles doesn’t mention the hair, burning as much as it does within his mind, he instead bares witness as Patroclus become consumed by a swaying curtain of dark, hiding his smile from his eyes, the curves of his face lost beneath. He can see how worried Patroclus is by the tightness of the tangles, the braids taught against his skull. Achilles waits until the boy beneath the hair lays still, his breaths coming deep, then begins to unravel it. Running his fingers through each strand, counting them till he himself falls into a rest he can call sleep. 

They wake up, limbs tied together, Achilles flesh a bright aura against the pallet, he runs pearled fingers through long silk hair and Patroclus sighs delicately as if had never expelled a breath before, it is the sweetest sound Achilles has ever heard. It reminds him of the petals of amaranth that drape themselves over each other scrambling to reach the light. He tries to remember how Patroclus’ mouth had felt on his, Achilles cannot dwell on the memory, however, he won't allow himself, for the burn of rejection will be far worse than this aching regret already etched. They know love is not meant for his heart, that it would tarnish his reputation. They know this well but do not say it aloud. For Achilles is as human as any other, the mortal coil twists around his calf, pricked into the ankle where it crawls up, he cannot help where it leads him from the leg brace. 

Days spent enraptured by signs they refuse to name. With each brush of skin, Patroclus moves away as if Achilles touch now burns. He walks on the trailing expanses of Achilles worrying mind. The ache of the earth shattering under Patroclus’ feet, swallowing him whole under his nose, without either being able to call out any words of farewell. The thought stirs into a curdle that spits itself into his dreams. Words pass his mind that could never be spoken, adoration and consumption of their own lives tied to the strings of the lyre he plays every night. 

Patroclus seemingly enjoys listening to him play, now there’s a strangeness that he had failed to realise before, where Achilles fingers pluck something deep within Patroclus weeps with a grief he did not truly know he had. His mother’s listless lifeless eyes bore into him in the corners where the light does not reach his hair and Patroclus finds himself holding it away from his face. 

Tucked behind his ears he reaches Achilles eyes for the first time that day, they hold a look, Achilles still plays but his gaze has found, the eyes familiar and dark as Patroclus’ are. He is glad to see him and his lyre leaps with joy within his hands, Patroclus feels the air stutter into his lungs, eyes burning with the exertion of it. 

He remembers the palace now more fondly than he had before, remembers on days when they would drape themselves around the rooms, loose limbed, the sun of Phthia high as if always at noon. Statues brushed with fingers not meant for the marble to feel against its face, it giggles with the touch or at least both boys believed they did. The leather of their sandals slapping against the polished floor, they run and stop, letting their feet guide them for mere seconds before they fall over themselves with laughs that should not be expelled, echoing each room and gracing it with life. 

As if a drop of gold flushing a blade, Patroclus returns to Achilles side. There’s an unwavering worry, spreading to them both as if he is a deer, skittish but finding the outstretched hands that offers food. Achilles understand as he keeps his lips a tight trail of unrelated words, sputtering into the air something that’ll make Patroclus laugh or at least smile. It is as if he has accepted something Achilles is not privy to, he considers a fate had met Patroclus deep in the woods one day that had changed him. Although Achilles knows better than to believe he is excused or muted by the fates for his birthright or for the love he has for the mortal that now lays beside him. Patroclus’ long hair trails down to the small of his back, it covers his muscled shoulders from his view but Achilles heeds no mind. He thinks of the pain of their lives but refuses to fight it, his battles not yet chosen, his strength shall not be wasted.

In the dead of the summer they hunt, biting their blades at rabbits hiding beneath the dew, the cold of the grass brushes their ankles when the red stains their toes. It’s a far cry from the palace but Achilles finds he loves it. He remembers Patroclus’ disdain for the death of small creatures that could not pray to the Gods or gasp for their lives. Their plight does not affect Achilles, however, he chooses to not voice this to the bloodied hands of his companion. For when he looks to him his eyes seem lost as if hiding beneath the foliage, he is unreadable when hunting. A mystical piece of movement neither he nor Chiron can explain. They speak of Patroclus in the nights when he falls into a drifting sleep against the heat of the fire, his hair protects his body from the dirt as if a fur. Chiron has small words for the boy, Achilles listen intently, he speaks of Patroclus as if he is a river constrained by a trapped log, the water runs fresh and bright against the shining sunlight yet not allowed to pour. 

On these seldom nights where Patroclus baths against the heat and loses himself to the inside of his eyelids, Achilles waits until they are alone, Chiron retired for the night. He watches as the breaths are expelled, he has watched Patroclus sleep so often, yet never grows tired of it. The appearance of an infant swaddled by insecurity only fraying in these moments when he can see without seeing. Sometimes, on brief nights when Achilles can bear the sight of the constraining groaning vulnerability, he will carry Patroclus to the place where they rest. His lax muscles, the sweet curve of his spine that drapes over Achilles as he lifts him, his head hangs, a hand to support the frail bone that holds the life blood as if it were just fruit on a branch. The warmth of his body then is almost too much, he picks the branches and dirt from his hair, leaves caught in the cascade, it reminds him of a stream.

Achilles runs as fast as he may, he grasps Patroclus in his hands, leading the boy behind him at paces he would never reach without his touch. There’s a rush to Achilles lungs, Patroclus’ long hair tied back spilling behind them both. They reach the tip of the cliff where their tree sits, it reminds Achilles of the sea front back home. Patroclus is huffing beside him with unkempt breath, a delicate wing pressed damp against his back, Achilles feels in that moment as if he is cheating.  
They sit then, against the wide trunk of the tallest tree already moulded to their backs. Patroclus’ head rests low on his knee, his teeth often scraping against the bared flesh. Achilles is fascinated by him when he is like this, contemplative in ways he does not let other people see. 

‘What are you thinking about?’ Achilles cannot help his tender curiosity peaks. 

He almost thinks Patroclus will not answer. ‘I am worried this will end, I cannot trace the days anymore. I cannot see the end but I know it must be there,’ his voice is nothing more than a purr. ‘I am afraid for what may come next.’ 

Achilles watches the mortal coil as it wraps around Patroclus’ lungs, seizing the younger into a clogging, fractured weak whimper of something strange that had not slipped from his lips for years.

For in their first autumn with Chiron, Achilles had almost fallen into a hole hidden beneath fallen branches, his body had twisted tight and sunk to the grass where Patroclus had once stood. Achilles will never forget the sound of Patroclus’ body, a resounding snap. Chiron had yelled for him, as Achilles had scrambled to the edge, met with the sight of Patroclus’ porcelain bone splitting through flesh. He had insisted on carrying him but Chiron would not allow it, the boy grasped the waist of the centaur, one hand holding Achilles tight, keening with pain neither of them had names for. His eyes had swam with an unknowing wistful weariness, as if the sun had never reached his eyes before, their usual shine gone as if vacant from his own body. Chiron had called it shock. 

His eyes held the same now, although softened and dripping at the edge and with a single tear trickling down his cheek, another caught just beneath the fold of his lower eyelid. The long hair draped him in a covering of his own body, a cradle of his own growth as if the earth were claiming him. That he would disappear from Achilles into the tree they leant against, remaining as an ever-watching thing. His hand, as if to stop this, went around Patroclus’ shoulder gently moving his hair from his skin, it enveloping his chest instead. Patroclus blinked away his tears, Achilles could not take his eyes away from him. 

He, in a moment he could not then explain, brought his hand to where Patroclus’ tears had dripped light spheres against his skin, and let his finger dust them away. Patroclus’ eyes were unreadable yet somehow open, he leaned his face into the touch. Achilles felt a heat bloom all over his body, hand now curving to the younger’s jaw, grasping skin he had never touched before. Patroclus prepares himself, edging closer he wipes his hand across his eyes, lips parting, glistening with his own dew. Their lips touch and their chests hold such emotions that not even the greatest warriors could pull apart their threads to unveil the hearts that lay beneath. 

‘We must enjoy the time we have.’ His voice a heaving breath, Achilles speaks in that moment as he never had before.

Patroclus, equally winded, smiles as if he were blessed by Helios himself, he glows and there must be some heat to it, since it is as if water has thawed. Their bodies unravel, cascade in streams of gasping breaths and gestures. It does not end that day, for Achilles finds his hand searching for Patroclus in any situation, he guides his honey soft fingers against the nearing calloused tips of his companions, their hands entranced without words to guide them.

However, a small treacle thick ebbing of concern drips onto Achilles skin almost without him noticing. It starts small, the notion that Patroclus’ worries are seeping into his epidermis as their bodies touch, as dark and devilishly cold as their cave is in the winter. Achilles wonder running, frivolous feet pacing, with visceral visions of what will become of them both. They hold skin tight to each other, Patroclus’ hair cascades around both their bodies, they are blessed with a privacy that drifts over them when the sun no longer reaches their feet.

It is in this pocket of space that Achilles begins to rasp with a sickness that clings near to his bones. Chiron seeks herbs, an insatiable heat to his movement as if he himself has fever, Patroclus finds his body listlessly leaning to Achilles hands. The flush of his panic paints his skin a deepening red as Achilles weak hands brush against his lips in the place where his own should rest. 

Deep in the fourth night, when Achilles is weary with slumber and Chiron’s eyes have rested shut for a moment too long, Patroclus gathers himself outside the cave. The furs do not rest over the mouth leading to their pallet, the heat is clinging to the night air regardless of Achilles sickness. Patroclus unties his hair from it’s braid, worrying fingers through the draping length. His hands shake, he hates the desperation he is going to, but as Achilles grows sicker, the days feel shorter. The peak of the mountain is hard for him to find, falling and scrambling up terrain he thought he could navigate with only the light of his eyelids. The mountain is discoloured as the moonlight pools on the peak as if the Gods were waiting for Patroclus to take centre stage. He calls to the sky as if she may hear his him. She does not answer, no appearance, not even the aura of her disdain for him, his voice growing hoarse he changes course.

‘Hermes,’ he calls anew, desperation is clammy on his cheeks. ‘Anyone please.’ 

‘I must admit, your dedication is quite impressive.’ The voice echoes as if in a cave, the night stills as his feet touch the ground. Patroclus has never truly called to their Gods, nor has he ever expected such a prompt response. ‘You called?’

His voice is not like Achilles or Chiron’s, Patroclus is somewhat taken by the notion that he has not heard many other voices for quite some time. He cannot help as he stares, the divinity shines gleaming across the Gods flesh. The messenger of the Gods, Patroclus can barely contain himself.

Then there’s a hum, a wavering patience and Patroclus is back. ‘I’m sorry - I am looking to find Thetis. She will not answer my calls.’ 

‘The mother of the boy who is sick.’

‘Yes,’ Patroclus replies despite it not being a question. ‘You can help us?’

Hermes eyes bore with thousands of lives, when his gaze meets Patroclus’ he feels as though his soul is being tugged from his body, gasping breath he near stumbles, the ground almost reaching his eyes. 

‘I am to help, I will go to Asclepius,’ there is no hurry to voice, however, if Patroclus is to strain his ears he may hear concern but nothing more. ‘You will return to him.’

Patroclus nods. The God races to the same tree that is so often he and Achilles shade, Hermes hand wraps the trunk, swinging round to look at Patroclus. 

‘But first,’ the God says, eyes alive and incandescent. ‘What is your name?’

‘Patroclus.’ 

‘I will help you,’ he says again. ‘Patroclus.’

With that he expects a burst of light, an iridescent flourish to show his leave, instead the night returns to the buzzing that lives beneath the trees, the noise had been snuffed out by Hermes as if he had not wanted any interruption. The same night he returns back to the cave without another fall to count, curling up beside the pallet, holding Achilles hand in his own bruised and grazed but not bleeding, his other rests against his forehead, the heat where it had shed shining sweat now lay tepid. He hopes his whispers of thanks to Hermes and Asclepius are loud enough to be heard through the forest, he imagines that one of the thousands of lives within Hermes eyes glint as if the deed is done. 

Achilles wakes with a clear throat and soft hum, reaching for Patroclus’ form, pulling the other close, who curls around him from the distant reach of sleep. He smiles against the cool flesh, his hair smells of the rising sod as if he had lain within it. 

‘Patroclus,’ he whispers. 

‘You are well?’ 

‘Much,’ he gazes at Patroclus as if to usher him, for he knows a sickness such as his could not just pass as fast as it had taken. 

‘I am glad,’ Patroclus’ voice does not raise pass a whisper. Chiron has not yet risen, his deep coarse breaths expel differently within their cave. He bites his lip before he tells Achilles of the night he had spent in the company of the darling of the Gods. Achilles stands as fast as the story ends, he does not waver or sway, for his body is as if nothing had happened, a perfect state of health. ‘Where are you going?’ 

‘Mother,’ he leans down to kiss Patroclus. ‘Thank you, I will be back soon.’

Achilles returns when the sun has risen to midday. Chiron acknowledges him with a finite embrace, praising his return to health. Patroclus did not dare tell him of his nights with the God. 

‘How is she?’ he asks instead. 

‘She is well.’ 

The quickening fall eats at all the fruit that remains on the forest floor. Achilles tosses them in his hands, no intention to eat but to just enjoy the smell of their sweet rot. They find the days grow longer, spent tying the brief remaining flowers that cling to the summer air into Patroclus’ dark hair. The tresses curl around Achilles fingers, they brush against each strand as if he is playing the strings of an ever fragile lyre. He hums deep in the back of his throat, as if playing a tune, feeling the vibration rather than finding the sound. Chiron in these days, is a companion as any other, he keeps them close but does not regard their actions with much comment, a silent watcher. Achilles believes he may be the only one to see them like this. 

It’s only on one of the last warm days of fall when Patroclus’ hair is brought up verbally. 

‘It is long now, the time to cut it do you not think.’ It somehow sounds like a question when it is not. The body beneath the cascading hair is still, the strands drape his face. Achilles feels his fingers stop against a knot tied deep, as if the strands are tying him down in defiance. 

Achilles thinks Patroclus will fight, that when his long hair is pulled back by new fingers, he will grasp it as if stung and hold it close to his body, but he does not. He holds his head high but his expression is not that of pride, the hair breaths, almost past his knees now, a gift from Mount Pelion itself only for him to take. The nature had suited him, his body melding into the loam, as if the mountain had claimed him. Achilles when tossing his mind back now, could not find what shorter hair had looked like on him. 

Taking his silence for answer, Chiron retrieves the small blade Patroclus has within a sheath against his hip, then begins to card the fingers of his free hand through the dark waves. Achilles cannot help but stare, the carved wooden tip of Patroclus’ blade is bowed with curls he created, it appears akin to his draping mane as if caught in the breeze. The flowers Achilles had placed there, glide to the dirt beneath but he hears nothing when they reach the ground. Gently, Chiron pulls the locks into a gather within his palm, it is pliable, however, when the blade slices the length it is unnaturally still. As the hair drops Patroclus’ head falls as if it were only held up by the tendrils, the hair brushes his chin now, does not cover his eyes that rest open on his own bare feet, a green hue dusts his toes. Chiron holds out the blade to him, it lays there tilting on his open palm, Patroclus does not reach for it. The hair remains against the dirt, what was once shining, laying silk against his back now appears coarse like animals. 

The centaur see this as a place to take leave, Patroclus’ blade forced back into the sheath by Chiron’s own hand, before it goes to rest on the now bare shoulder, a gentle tug of something between them, a bond there that Achilles had never seen flicker before. He watches as he goes, his expression hard although he does not truly know how he feels. He takes Patroclus’ once stable hands in his own, they’re damp, warm with his own sweat, it reminds Achilles of the shock. The sky above stirs with a grayscale gaze slowly dying the ground, a chill deeper than the feeling of Achilles mother’s skin breaths, husks into the air.

‘Let’s go,’ Achilles says, his hands not releasing as he stands. Patroclus does not move, the hustling breeze takes the reins to weep over them, the flowers curl up, the hair belongs to the mountain again. ‘Patroclus-’

‘Why did he do it?’ Patroclus’ voice is whimpering, a wounded animal cry.

‘Maybe he knows something we do not,’ he waits as if there will be an answer. ‘How about we go back to the cave?’ 

Patroclus turns his head to his shoulder as if to brush his cheek against what is no longer draping there. His eyes do not meet Achilles, he does not dare to look up. His remaining hair is wet against his cheeks, dripping onto his feet, the green hue on his toes bleeding back to dusk skin. Their intertwined hands endure, Achilles feels the cold rain begin to bite into his skin, he aches to leave, but there’s an apprehension that flows into his blood as the silence grows between the space where their hands meet.

‘I wish I were dead.’ 

‘Do not be so foolish,’ Achilles voice cries rabid as his body spikes with unabiding fear, the wind stirs mercilessly against their cheeks. He pulls Patroclus’ arm hard so he will stand, there’s an etch of pain that is brushed away almost as soon as it appears. ‘Patroclus.’ His lips wail, he pulls him against his cold flushed flesh, arms wrapping around him, a feverous impalpable tightness to their bodies. 

‘Patroclus.’ he says again, again and again, till his voice dies out. 

He does not sleep that night, Patroclus’ bared face pours over him, cheeks flushed with sleep, his words do not leave his ears in a ringing that remains, a fear that does not ebb. 

The fall burns fast to the wick of winter, Patroclus is different, his face juts out from his hair, his features large, a stark delicacy Achilles is only used to seeing when they are alone. Patroclus does not mention his hair, nor his words that day. Wind does not brush it as it once did, the flush of his body always draped within a covering of his own. The threadbare remnants of his hair eaten by the drying dew. Patroclus pretends Mount Pelion mourns the loss with him, Achilles runs his fingers through the remaining lengths and they hold each other all the same, the dead of night is their salvation, the dew that passes between their lips, the gasps of Achilles sweet lungs huffing smoke into the winter’s night. 

Patroclus distracts his mind, guides it to wonder on things he has never tossed beneath it before. He returns to one thought over and over, in which he is devoid of one of his senses. He drifts between which ones would be more of a loss, settles within hearing as if drawn by vibrations. Thinking on how Achilles voice will feel against his skin, his hands dancing, cutting into the air as if a spear just to ask Patroclus if he is okay. He thinks often on how the world would feel, will the smell of the silt rising be enough to guide his motionless ears. Will the mere memory of the lyre’s soft tunes remain while Achilles plays, the opening of his mouth the vibration of his adam's apple wavering against his fingertips as he sings. He thinks of it, but does not wish for it to happen. 

He wonders aloud one night on this, as to let Achilles in. These thoughts are his to cradle against his chest and are seemingly locked away in the cage between his ribs. Achilles hums, a consideration drops like pebbles into a pool, the cave they called home echoing with it.

‘I think you would be the same as you are now,’ Achilles says, a long space within the air left impenetrable by his noise. ‘You would mean no less to me.’

Patroclus hides his smile in the place where his lips meet, his eyes fill with bliss as he gazes at him, as if they are still in the phase of stealing glances. He wants more words between them, to know what Achilles truly means by this but instead he lets the word sneak in where the secret had laid, his chest growing warm with the wealth of the words. His lips find Achilles, who smiles into it, drinking in the contact like the dark thick liquid they had watched intently poured down the throats of nobles they had feasted beside as children.

‘And of my hair?’ he says after their lips leave each other.

‘I miss the joy it gave you,’ Achilles says without abandon. ‘I know that you miss it.’

Achilles hands find the remaining hair, short locks begging for touch, Patroclus tucks himself against his body, head under his chin. 

‘It scared me though, that day on the peak,’ his fingernail teases the puckered skin of Patroclus’ arm. ‘I do not think I had been that afraid before.’

‘Forgive me?’ Patroclus tries to bite his tongue but cannot help the words that slip trembling from between his teeth. ‘I- I do not know why I said them.’

‘How long have you thought them? Words as those are don’t just occur.’

‘Since the boy, before exile, there may even have been a time before that.’

‘Do you think of it now?’ Achilles voice is free of all judgement, a flush of ocean water brushing the shore. 

‘No,’ he pauses, not daring to move from where his head is pressed against the skin of Achilles neck, he feels each breath, each rumble of words rupturing from his throat. ‘Forgive me?’

‘Of course, I had never condemned you in the first place.’

As Patroclus begins to drift into the unknowing rift between wake and sleep, Achilles lips find the crown of his head where the roots are born, his lips linger long as if the last touch they will share. Patroclus’ hand glides across the bare skin of Achilles as to cup his chin, moving so that they may meet eyes. The word love never tumbles from their lips, but it grows beneath their skin all the same. Tanned flesh milky with connection. The fate is bound, it tumbles from their bodies, they can only bare witness to its motions now.


End file.
